


Snowball

by someonestolemyshoes



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Nosebleed, Snowball Fights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 17:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13105008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someonestolemyshoes/pseuds/someonestolemyshoes
Summary: Kageyama, Hinata, and the first snow of winter—what could possibly go wrong?





	Snowball

School is  _boring_. School is always boring, mind numbingly tedious, and honest truth, Hinata has considered on multiple occasions just…leaving, standing up and walking out and living the rest of his life education- and boredom-free, except, school is where volleyball is, and Hinata  _likes_ volleyball, and school is where his team is, and Hinata  _likes_  his team.

(School is also where Kageyama is, and…he’s okay, Hinata supposes. Maybe a little bit better than okay, but definitely not all that much.)

Today, though, school is filled with a weird, buzzing sense of anticipation, because while the afternoon has droned on—and on, and on—the first snow of winter has fallen outside the windows.

There is excitement for different reasons, Hinata knows. Some are hoping for potential snow days, while others are happy that it finally seems like Winter has begun, and there are whispers of Christmas, of presents and family and fireworks and confessions, and some—like Hinata—are excited because snow brings forth the potential for—

“Snowball fight!”

Hinata collars Kageyama outside the club room, with a mushy pile of melting snow that was, not ten minutes ago, at least a little more solid and a little more spherical than it is now, curled in his fist.

Kageyama blinks at him.

“C’mon,” Hinata says, reshaping the slush in his palms, “let's have a snowball fight.”

“No.”

Hinata drops his mush to the ground with a wet  _slop_  and stamps his foot, folding his hands beneath his armpits.

“ _Uwaaaaa_ , don’t be such a spoilsport, Kageyama.”  

“We’ve got  _practice_ , idiot.”

“I know!” He does know—like he could possibly forget  _practice_. “But nobody is here yet, and it’s snowing, and today has been  _super_ boring and you’re being…a…a  _fun sponge.”_

Kageyama shoots out a hand, faster than Hinata can see it and he doesn’t dodge fast enough, loses his hat to Kageyama’s claw-grip by the pom-pom.

“I am  _not_  a fun-sponge,” he says, dangling Hinata’s hat just out of his reach.

“Are,” jump, “so,” jump, “ _Spongey-_ Yama.” Jump jump  _jump._ He’s got the height to reach, most definitely, but Kageyama is swinging his arm this way and that like a great lanky stupid crane, and it's making things far harder than they should be. Hinata stops, huffing his frustration.

Kageyama slaps the hat down on his head—probably harder than necessary—and turns for the stairs, one hand in his pocket, the other skimming through the fresh trail of snow sitting on the handrail.

“ _Practice.”_

Hinata pulls a face behind his back. Stupid Kageyama, he thinks, sulking as he takes a few dragging steps towards the staircase. Stupid Kageyama, sucking the fun out of everything, ever, all the time, like the big stupid sponge he is.

Well, just because Kageyama doesn’t want to fight, doesn’t mean Hinata shouldn’t be able to.

Hiding his grin in his scarf, Hinata bends at his knees, eyes locked firmly on the back of Kageyama’s head in case he turns around—because  _oh_ if he does, Hinata might as well just bury himself right here and right now—and scoops up the biggest handful of snow he can get.

Hinata thanks the snow on the steps for cushioning all sound as he tiptoes up behind Kageyama, packing his next weapon between his hands—not too hard, just solid enough to stay in one piece before impact. Kageyama does not turn, just keeps walking, and as he mounts the very last step, Hinata plans his attack.

If he’s quiet, it shouldn’t be  _too_  difficult.

He lets Kageyama walk a little way closer to the door—he needs space to  _run_ , run very far away, and he doesn’t want to be teetering too close to the staircase when the time comes to move—and what happens next  _should_  be simple.

All he has to do is get Kageyama squarely in the face with his snow pile, and not get caught before or after the fact. That’s  _it_.

Easy.

Except, when Hinata springs, arm poised and ready, curling over Kageyama’s shoulder, creeping closer and closer to his target, Kageyama turns.

He turns, and his arm comes up, too, in it, the most compact snowball Hinata has ever seen  _or_  felt.

It hits him in the cheek, whipping cool and ice-sharp over his skin, and Hinata is a little too busy worrying about the state of his own face to pay attention to what his swinging arm is doing.

It connects with Kageyama’s face and the  _noise_ —it crunches, something crunches, and Hinata hopes it’s the snow in his hand but it’s not, he knows it’s not, not if the sticky warmth coating his glove is anything to go by.

“Oh god,” Hinata says, stepping back as Kageyama bends forward, both hands cupped over his nose. “Oh god, I’m so—I’m so sorry, I’ll just—”

“Tissue,” Kageyama says— _snarls_ , only the word comes thick and muffled behind his hands, “ _now_.”

“R-right!” Hinata skims past him—back to the wall, in case Kageyama decides tissues are less important than, say, straight up murder—and dodges into the clubroom, grabbing handfuls of tissue from the bathroom and running back outside.

Kageyama is kneeling when he returns, back to the wall, little rivers of blood spreading like veins over his jaw and down his neck. Hinata chokes back a whine and thrusts the tissues in Kageyama’s direction.

“Here,” he says, “I’m sorry.”

Kageyama peaks up through his fringe. Maybe it’s the blood, or the cold weather, or the light bouncing back off the freshly fallen snow, but whatever the cause, Kageyama’s skin looks sickly white.

“You will be,” Kageyama says, snatching for the tissues and staunching the blood flow from his nostrils. Hinata rings his hands together. He should probably leave about now, really, run away before Kageyama cleans himself up enough to get  _really_  mad, but…honestly, he feels a little too bad to leave him on his own.

All too soon, Kageyama bleeds through the first handful of tissues, and the second, and Hinata is starting to really, actually worry that he might just lose all of his blood out his nose.

When Kageyama exhausts the current tissue supply, Hinata fetches more, and this time, he throws off his bloody gloves and kneels in the snow and pushes the entire bundle up against Kageyama’s face.

“I’m not saying it’s entirely your fault,” Hinata says, packing tissues up against Kageyama’s nose and tipping his head back (or maybe forward, but no,  _definitely_  back, so the blood will run back  _in_ ) with cold-numb fingers and hot, stinging skin prickling on one cheek, “but it is like… _mostly_ almost all your fault.”

“How is it— _ow_ , dumbass, not so hard—how is it even a  _little_  bit my fault, huh?”

“You  _ambushed_  me!”

“You ambushed me first!”

“You said you weren’t gonna play.”

“Just—just move the tissues, I think it’s stopped.”

Hinata does as told—warily, because he doesn’t want anymore nose blood on him than strictly necessary—and as the tissues pull back, he winces.

Kageyama’s nose looks… _bad_ , all bruised and swollen and maybe a little bent out of shape, Hinata isn’t sure. It doesn’t much matter, though, because either way it looks awful. Terrible.

Kageyama blinks up at him and scrunches up all of Hinata’s dropped tissues.

“Well?” he asks, “how does it look?”

“Fine.” It is not fine. It is…so horribly far from fine. “Perfectly normal. Can’t even tell it was bleeding.”

Kageyama lifts tentative fingers to poke and to prod and Hinata yelps, catches both his wrists and pushes them down into his lap.

“Don’t touch! You’ll—you’ll make it bleed again!”

Kageyama blinks at him. Like this, they’re close together; so close Hinata can see with absolute clarity the crusted bloody mess on Kageyama’s top lip, and the pretty purple bruising webbing out over both cheeks, and the weird,  _awfully_  misshapen bridge of his nose (oh  _god_  oh god), and his eyes, wide and owlish and glittering in the snowy winter afternoon.

“Looks great,” Hinata says. He keeps a firm grip on Kageyama’s wrists, wedged between his crossed legs, because if Kageyama breaks free, if he  _sees_ what Hinata  _did_ —Hinata shudders. It doesn’t bare thinking about. “I’ve never seen a better nose in all my life. The  _best_.”

Kageyama squints over at him. He looks all funny, bloody scarf tucked right up under his chin, hat pulled low on his brows and his shoulders hiked up about his ears, fending off the chill, and Hinata might even, maybe, kind of think he looked  _cute_  (not like… _really_  cute. Just a little bit), if it weren’t for…well, the blood and the bruises and his awful, swollen, crooked nose.

“You’re a real shitty liar, you know that?”

Hinata would very much like to argue—opens his mouth to, sucks in a great big breath and puffs up his cheeks and scrunches his nose and everything—but that would admit he was, in fact, lying, and the last thing he wants in the whole wide  _world_ , right now, is for Kageyama to know that. So instead, he settles back on his heels, slowly releases his grip on Kageyama’s wrists, and when he’s sure the idiot isn’t about to reach up and touch his monstrosity of a face, folds his arms over his chest, and turns his nose to the chill winter air.

“When have I ever lied about anything,  _ever_?”

Kageyama doesn’t respond, and Hinata doesn’t look back at him. He doesn’t  _dare_ ; just keeps his face upturned, and waits. Waits for Kageyama to respond, for a “ _yes, you’re right, how could I ever have doubted you, Hinata?_ ”; waits for the cold hands of death (see: Kageyama’s long, bloody, chilly fingers) to close about his throat and choke the life out of him for breaking his nose, but neither of those things happen.

The world remains still, and quiet. Death does not come. The snow continues to fall, tickling his wind-bitten skin, and Kageyama stays perfectly silent, not a peep or grunt or grumble passing his lips.

It should, perhaps, be peaceful, but the silence fills Hinata with the most impending sense of doom he’s ever felt in his whole entire  _life_.

“…Kag’yama?” He asks, tentatively. Kageyama doesn’t respond. Hinata opens his eyes and stares up at the puffy white sky, bloated clouds sailing overhead. The world is blissfully still. It’s  _eerie_. “Hey, ‘Yama, what are you—”

And just like that, the stillness breaks, with the hardest coldest  _thwak_  to the face he’s ever had. Hinata has never had  _déjà vu_  before, but he imagines this is what it must be like; he can even imagine the nasty crunch of all Kageyama’s fragile little nose-parts beneath his palm, almost, but the connection doesn’t really come. Instead, Hinata tumbles back into the blanketing snow, shocked and pained and  _freezing_ , and Kageyama’s whole weight topples on top of him, hands piled high with huge, frigid clumps of snow.

“Payback,” Kageyama growls. It’d maybe be threatening if it weren’t so  _nasal_ , all thick and clogged right up in his nose. He yanks Hinata’s collar up from his neck, and shoves one of his great handfuls of snow right down the front of Hinata’s shirt.

“No—no fair! You—oi,  _Bakageyama_ , you—you got me first!”

“You broke my  _nose_ —”

 _Ah_ , Hinata thinks. So he knows, then.

“Stop—being—so—dramatic—” Hinata grunts, each word squeezed between his desperate scrambles for freedom, trying to pull himself out from beneath Kageyama’s body. “It’s really not  _that_  bad—”

Kageyama straddles Hinata’s thighs and stills his assault, only to reach for another mound of snow, and Hinata takes the opportunity to wiggle around, until he’s lying on his stomach.

“I’ve seen  _way_  worse noses,” he pants, army crawling his way out from under Kageyama’s weight. Just as he feels his knees slip out from Kageyama’s bulk, a fist grabs into the back of his shirt, and Kageyama yanks him backwards, the next handful of snow packing down between his shoulder blades.

“ _Waaaah_ —okay! Okay, I g-give—that’s  _cold_ ,  _Baka_ —you trying to kill me, huh?”

“Oh you’d  _know_ if I was  _trying_  too—”

“Hey!”

Hinata freezes. Above him, Kageyama freezes, too. The chill that runs down his spine has  _nothing_  to do with the melting snow beneath his clothes.

Slowly, he peeks up.

Daichi stands over them both, arms folded high over his chest. He looks  _menacing_ , from here, tall and looming, blocking out the light from the snow-filled sky.

“What,” he starts, and both Hinata and Kageyama twitch, “the  _hell_  happened here?”

Slowly, Kageyama backs his weight off. Hinata scrambles to a polite, apologetic kneel right alongside Kageyama, and glances around them at the mess they’ve made.

It’s a  _bloodbath_ , big pools and little flecks of Kageyama’s gross nose-blood strewn about the snowy ground, and here and there huge hunks of snow have been scraped away, melting inside Hinata’s clothing. Their pile of bloody tissue sits damp and sad by the wall, along with Hinata’s discarded gloves, and there are a number of unmistakable red hand prints on the brick where Kageyama had been.

Hinata swallows. Daichi’s lip curls.

_“It was Hinata’s idea—”_

_“Kageyama started it—”_

“—Oi, don’t blame  _me_  for  _your_  dumbass suggestions—”

“—if  _you_ hadn’t hit  _me_  first I wouldn’t have broke your big stupid  _nose_ —”

“—who’re you calling stupid,  _stupid_?”

 _You_ , Hinata thinks,  _you, you big dumb stupid idiot_ , but he doesn’t dare say another word. Not because he’s scared of Kageyama (even though he kind of is, just a little bit), but because Daichi has been silent for far, far too long, and not much in the world frightens him more than a quiet Daichi does.

“Are you done?” Daichi asks. His voice comes terrifyingly calm. Despite the cold, Hinata feels himself begin to sweat. He exchanges a reluctant, narrow sideways glance at Kageyama, who at least has the decency to look just as frightened as Hinata feels (maybe even more so, and definitely more  _stupid_ , with his swollen, crooked nose and bloody skin), and then, as one, they nod.

“Good,” Daichi says. And then he smiles, and every little drop of sweat Hinata has shed sucks itself right back into his body, along with a couple very delicate parts of himself, and any and all hope he’d had of leaving this monstrous situation in one piece. “Now, how about the pair of you start cleaning this up, huh?”

* * *

School is  _boring_. School is always boring, mind numbingly tedious and honest truth, Hinata has considered on multiple occasions just…leaving, standing up and walking out and living the rest of his life education- and boredom-free, except, school is where volleyball is, and Hinata  _likes_ volleyball, and school is where his team is, and Hinata  _likes_  his team.

And today—even with the snow, still fluttering soft and cool and pretty from the sky—school is extra boring, because even if school is where volleyball is, and school is where his team is, and school is where  _Kageyama_  is, Hinata doesn’t get to enjoy a single bit of it.

He doesn’t, because while he  _should_  be at practice, with his team, spiking toss after toss after toss from his setter, Hinata is outside in the frigid evening, scrubbing bloody hand prints from the chill brick walls, while the rest of the team practice merrily, their cheery yells drifting from down in the gym.

He does, at least, still have Kageyama by his side, but honest, Hinata would maybe rather be on his own. Not because he doesn’t  _like_  Kageyama or anything (he’s still  _okay_ , Hinata supposes), it’s just, he’s not the biggest fan when he knows Kageyama really, actively wants him dead, and right now…

Right now, Kageyama has tissues shoved up both nostrils (just in case), and the entire middle of his face is a super ugly shade of nasty, mottled purple, swollen and lumpy and just plain  _angry_  looking, and Hinata doesn’t think Kageyama has wanted him more dead in his whole entire _life_

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: someone-stole-my-shoes  
> Twitter: someone_stolemy


End file.
